


Temporal Learning

by Plinkoid_Fics (daveaj)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Ghosts, M/M, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-03
Updated: 2015-03-03
Packaged: 2018-03-10 07:43:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3282443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daveaj/pseuds/Plinkoid_Fics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You can hear the murmur of your name through the apartment's walls and you can guess his presence just beyond that. The solitude is crushing, but it might just help you into the right direction.</p><p>Contemplation is hard, but having his spectral memory haunting your home is slightly harder.<br/>You are learning to understand time in a way you believe only he has mastered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Temporal Learning

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is a repost with permission. It was originally by former Tumblr/AO3 user Plinkoid. For more information on the author, go [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Daveaj/profile). The rating and tags may not be entirely accurate to what they were before, but I tried to account for any triggers I could find. If anyone leaves comments I will make sure the author sees them. Any notes after this point are the author's original notes.

_-You were starting to believe you had no sense of intuition.-_

There is a game the four of you play for a little while.  You set up a video conference and each of you huddles up under the blankets and in front of each computer screen.  Despite the difference in time zones, you all wind up in relative darkness; no one ever aims to remediate to the lighting and no one dares to suggest a simple conference call instead.  The light of the screen will sometimes reflect off Jade’s round glasses, it’s a comfort to you, and you wonder if it’s a comfort to anyone else to see the same from your webcam’s view.  When the light of Dave’s screen catches the golden frames of his shades however, you find that he seems more closed off, older than he really is.  In contrast, it’s not ever much of a comfort. 

One of you will usually set up the whole thing, none of you ever plans ahead to discuss this, but it slides its way into the topic of conversation anyhow.  Rose calls it a game for good measure, but the terminology irritates you a bit.  You don’t like the implication that all games should be a reference to death now, not that she has ever phrased it in such a way.  

“What if a piano falls on top John?  Just like in the cartoons!” 

Your eyebrows quirk up with amusement and both the blondes answer with a half snicker.  The game is thinking up the most absurd, unlikely, or the most plausible, likely death each of you will reach.  There’d been lingering tension, an urge to speak of past deaths, deaths that hadn't really been but had been everything at a time.  Obviously, it’s easier to play a game about hypothetical dying rather than to discuss anything that had happened amidst your completed game session.  It’s easier, so no one bothers to dig up the courage to fulfill the veritable desire that plagues you. 

“If anyone’s dying a cartoon worthy death; it’ll be Dave.”  You shrug, there are no snickers, but you fail to notice just as you've always failed to notice the only dying scenarios you ever bring up are those pertaining to Dave.  “Like the sort of death that will be so funny that it’ll be basically impossible for any of us to be crippled with grief.  Sure, he’s dead and that sucks, but whenever it’s brought up we will have to laugh at how ridiculous his death really was.” 

And you hadn't lied.  You’d always fooled yourself into thinking his death wouldn't turn out to be tragic. 

Dave had said; “Spoken like a true friend.”  Rose had said; “But can you think of a specific example you could laugh at?” 

You had not, and you still cannot. 

 

_-Presentiments and premonitions were simply not part of your repertory.-_

Sburb is over, and he’s back in Texas and you’re back in Washington; and all things considered you decide that he is pretty safe. 

Years later, you somehow coerce him into getting to cohabit with you, and you then decide that he is even safer. 

You get him to romantically involve himself with you, and then you’re sure he is safe from other people too. 

He spends most of his time in his room, and that’s just it, he is safe in his room and that is for the best. 

You’re convinced that you've worked hard to keep him safe, and with some luck added to that work…  That should be just enough.

 

_-Yes, there was once a time when instincts failed you repeatedly.-_

It was an average day.  You woke Dave up in the morning with a kiss, and you had had to physically resist him from pulling you down into his bed.  You’d gotten ready quickly enough and had managed to catch another glimpse of him just as you had left him breakfast on the nice, round kitchen table the two of you used for virtually every meal.  He had had lurked out of his room just as you had been ready to shut the front door behind you, when you’d seen him, sleep still imprinted over his pale skin, you’d blown him a kiss, and he’d pulled out his tongue tiredly. 

There hadn't been any reason for the day to turn sour and really it had seemed to you as if all levels of sweetness were well and under control.  It had been a Wednesday to boot, the middle of the week, the perfect alignment of routine.  The day had passed without a hitch in time; you couldn't say that you were strained for your day of work to be over with, but you were indeed happy when the time came and you could return home.  It was a good, normal day, and the next one would be quite similar, and that was all you could really hope for, wasn't it? 

For some reason, when you came home that night, you’d felt as if you were a ghost stepping through the front door, completely soundless.  Had you been planning to surprise Dave?  Or rather, were you simply checking for his presence at home?  Noting his presence did something to you however, in a moment’s time, for he was seated at your nice, round kitchen table, directly adjacent to the small entry of your apartment.  Seated, no, it was more like napping, arms folded over his lap and head resting on the surface of the table.

The place had been sufficiently neat, as if he had not bothered to make any food today.  Maybe he’d eaten out.  The first thing to make you uneasy, you think, was the pitcher of pink lemonade.  You took note of the emptied can of frozen concentrated Minute Maid, remembering vividly how you had been the one to teach Dave the wonders of frozen juice and how excited he had been the first few times to taste it.

You were still being soundless as you put your foot back out of the apartment; still just as quiet as you hurriedly made your way down the spiral staircase leading to your small home.  You hit the speed dial of your cellphone; you hadn't consciously understood which number you’d pressed though until you’d heard your father’s warm voice. 

It’s not like you had an idea of what he had greeted you with, but you immediately dove into what it was that you wanted. 

“Dad, it’s John, can you please come see me?” 

And it’s not like you could ever make out the words that were being spoken to you from the other side of the line.  But you explained yourself anyway, as best as you could, guessing that there might be need for that explanation. 

“It’s just, Dave?  I’m, I’m worried, I don’t know.” 

Your own voice must have sold it well enough, because those were the only mere sentences you ever had to speak to get your father to make the three hour drive to where you were. 

 

_-And when others’ perceptions swooped in and saved you time and time again.-_

Your first apartment with Dave had been even smaller, and you've never quite managed to understand how it was that he had accepted to live with you in such a place.  You like to think that, maybe, just maybe, he wanted to live with you just as much as you did with him.  The nice thing had been that the complex had been located directly leading up to one of the city’s busiest streets.  And so the corner store was never too far for any of Dave’s midnight cravings, which he had a lot of. 

But you liked it, you liked slipping your jacket on and bantering with him, pretending you were only going to bring back goods for yourself and nothing at all that would be of his liking.  You liked the expression that would softly light up his face when you came back and he could see through the bag that the purchases were in fact all for him. 

And you liked to set the things out in front of him, giving him the special treats he hadn't asked for, his favorite pack of gum because you’d noticed he’d run out, this new brand of cookies because you  knew he liked the specific flavor…  And because it was a crazy hour of the night, and because you were being stupidly nice with him for once, he would often lean his face into your stomach, from his spot on the couch, and hug your midriff. 

You’d card your fingers through his hair and laugh and tell him that you took such care of him, just as if he were your kid.  And he’d just mumble something about being happy; and your chest did this stupid thing where it cried for you to make him happier, even just a little bit more and just a little bit more often. 

 

_-Left to your own devices, you often overlooked the big picture.-_

You’d sat at the very bottom of the spiral staircase for those entire three hours of waiting.  You’d watched the sun sink in the sky and you’d worried, continuously so, if maybe Dave was just fine and wondering where you’d vanished to.  That was easy to deal with though, because if that were the simple case, Dave would have come out to find you already, and you’d be making supper together already.  You thought less of the possibility of Dave actually needing your help.

But you’d seen the way his head was awkwardly resting on the table, you knew Dave, you knew him as well as you could ever know someone.  And you knew the way he looked when he slept, and you didn't understand the way his arms had folded near his stomach, there was something strange and you could not put your finger on it…  Well, of course, you could, and it’s what had you hidden away, but you could not grasp in that moment what you had immediately understood. 

You had stood up when your father had appeared, but now you can’t remember much of it.  From retellings of the story, you've understood that your father had sensed you as being extremely shaken up.  You, however, can’t remember a thing about your mental or physical state.  You just know that he had taken the keys from you, and you had waited, now standing at the very bottom step, and it had taken much too long. 

The only other thing you remember is that the way the tears slid down your cheeks had been extremely painful.  Even though your father had held you just as tightly as he always had throughout your childhood, the pain still hadn't subdued.

 

_-Your friends typically possessed that great sense of intuition you lacked.-_

“With arsenic,” you answer dully. 

“He clearly had read one crime book too many.” 

The way she could use the past tense so casually already had hushed both you and Jade in a single breath. 

“It must have been painful,” Rose eventually adds, twirling a strand of hair in between two of her fingers, the only present telltale signs of her distress.  “I suppose, unless the dose was really ridiculous?  I don’t know.” 

And in another breath’s time, all of those signs of distress rose to the surface in unison. 

Jade had enveloped her in a hug before you had the decency to even lift a finger. Not that you ever did afterwards, you couldn't bring yourself to.  Everyone here cared for Dave, but no one had gone out of their way to make him safe, not like you had, not like you had failed to do. 

“You lied, John, this isn't the slightest bit funny.”  But Jade laughed when she said it, hours later, deep in the night when none of you wanted to sleep.

You don’t know why she remembered a stupid tactless game the four of you used to play in the dark of your respective rooms, years ago, easily a decade ago.  But you hadn't forgotten either.  And you laughed with her until the laughter was fully replaced with your silent tears. 

 

_-But you don’t expect it to be all that hard for them…-_

The first time you kissed Dave, on the lips, with all of your heart, you’d already moved into your final apartment.  You were both supposedly composed adults, but you still let yourself lose a couple of years of age when you were with him, just to make him smile a tad more. 

It had been the fifth day in a row that he had snuck into the apartment at the end of his day and had darted without a word’s notice to his room, shutting his door without hesitation after doing so.  And you’d sighed from your spot on the couch, reading one of the books he’d left on the coffee table by accident.  You had hoped to stop him today, but he had zoomed right past you.  It was a sigh of affection, because you knew him, you knew him so well, and you were endeared with the way he had to be slowly eased out of his extensive personal space. 

It was not a sigh of resignation however, and for the first time that week, you dared to try to ease him out of all that space.  The knock on his door had been abrupt, and you’d knocked again when he hadn't made it there in record time.  And you heard his thudding steps behind the door as you knocked a third time, and you could almost imagine him flailing his arms.  And it was so endearing, and you loved this person so much that it sort of all got way out of hand before he had even had the time to make it to where you were. 

A sliver of his room could be seen as he let his head peek out, headphones not quite over his ears.  You could imagine him almost breaking his neck when realizing he had tried to get away from his computer with his headset still attached to it. 

“Come out of your room,” you simply tell him. 

And he pulls that innocent face of his, as if all of his activities were of crucial importance.  “I've got stuff!”  He drags the ‘u’ of stuff, and that too is endearing. 

So you just put your hand on the back of his head and push him into the kiss.  It’s a happy, gentle, endeared kiss, and of course this time you don’t so much ease him out of his personal space as you do tug and pull, kissing him with increasing speed and need as he easily emerges from his room, his foot slamming the door shut as you lead him to your earlier spot. 

You kiss him for the rest of the night.  And he does protest that he has to get back to his things a few times, but he always finds a way to reinitiate the kissing before truly finishing his complaint. 

 

_-Not when one is a hero of time.-_

It doesn't feel as if it’s Dave’s funeral.  Nothing feels as it should anymore.  It probably has something to do with you not having returned home yet.  But you can’t stop thinking about the curve of his arms when you’d come home, and about how Rose said it must have been painful.  Had he been clutching his stomach?  You don’t want to think about that. 

You hadn't gone home.  You’d stayed with your father at the hotel a bit and with Jade a bit too and…  You felt completely beside yourself.

You don’t want to go home, and the feelings, not the worn ones you could exteriorize, not everything that felt not quite how it should have, but your true feelings, the ones that meant something; they were all much too mingled, too tangled for you to know why it was you were refusing to go back home.  You knew Dave would no longer be there.  Were you scared of how that would feel?  You were scared.  But the reasons you were scared weren't easy to grasp.  Nothing was quite easy now. 

 

_-Or a seer.-_

You just didn't understand why Dave couldn't come to terms with his personal space issues.  You’d begged and begged him to just sleep in your bed.  He would tell you that his room was too sacred to be abandoned.  And when you suggested joining him, he always refused to make it a permanent thing; he couldn't dishonor that sacred aspect of his abode. 

You always needed to start over with him too, build up what sort of touches were alright, and have him jump when you tried to hold his hand the following day.  But it didn't matter; you could find cracks and slither your way in.  You could make it work, because you wanted to make it work. 

And so you countered him whenever sleep still somewhat had its hands on him, when he was drowsy and responsive to touch and showed just how he really was starved for affection under the pretense of too much space. 

You’d go find him in the morning and you could simply touch his shoulder and he was already kissing you.  Or you could get him to watch a film that would bore him half to death and afterwards he would want to cuddle all night with you.  And he’d complain so often that you were so touchy, so needy, but it meant nothing.  It meant nothing because you knew a normal person, even Dave, needed physical contact, and you’d trick him into accepting it as long as it would take for him to start coming to you instead. 

It made you sad, but most of the time you could cover that up with how much you loved him.  But sometimes it made you sad.  It made you sad to think of Dave as someone who didn't take good enough care of himself.  It’s not what you want for him.  But that’s alright because he has you, and that isn't about to change. 

 

_-Or a witch of space.-_

Your father is the one to take you home when everything is said and done.  Dave is dead, six feet under, and you are alone.  Before he takes you back home he asks you if you’d rather have the girls go with you instead.  You don’t say anything because you’d just really rather have Dave’s hand to hold. 

The kitchen is cleaned, the lemonade is gone, but so is the boy.  And you don’t linger on it too much, you let your dad set your things down in your room, and you've never wanted Dave to join you in your bed as much as you do now.  You can count the number of times he had accepted to spend the night huddled up under your heavy white covers with you on your two hands, you remember every single time.  

You feel another onslaught of painful tears, but apparently it’s not all that bad because when you do brush the back of your hand over your cheeks, the tears have already fallen and you hadn't had a chance to feel a single thing. 

Do you want me to go into his room with you?  Do you want me to do it alone some other time?  What would you be most comfortable with, son?—  They shouldn't be, but they are hard questions to answer.  You tell him you want to take care of it yourself.  And, sweet man that he is, he proposes that you can get ready for bed and he could tuck you in, and only then he shall leave.  But maybe it isn't that sweet, and maybe the cold fear that is piercing your chest is as clear as day. 

Instead you lead him back to the door, instead, you put yourself in such a position, that when he is gone, you are alone in the nice kitchen you’d shared with Dave.  The nice kitchen where he’d… 

And you don’t want to do this to yourself, but you trace your way to his room anyhow, shut, as always.  Your fingers slide over the doorknob and over the keyhole.  You remember taking the skeleton key the landlord had given you when you’d moved in away from Dave, for a year straight he had compulsively locked his room, whether he be out of home or inside of his room.  It had gotten to a point where you asked him quite clearly to be more open with you, and the key had ended up in the trash.  It had surprised you then how quickly he had shed the barrier when you’d mentioned it, never going back on it. 

You didn't want to enter his room, not yet.  But you wanted to see it, you wanted to see his things, where he spent most of his time, where he was most comfortable.  You stupidly knelt down, pressing your eye to the keyhole. 

The way Dave had placed his bed had always puzzled you, parallel to his door, and placing his pillow on the side that would allow him the less visibility to the door and to which intruders could come in.  It had surprised you, it had surprised you that after all of his brother’s supposed surprise attacks that he would leave himself in the open like that.  It also charmed you in some way, as if it was a shy show of his trust.

He slept facing away from the door too, and you could see it through his keyhole, his head of white hair as he slept facing the wall, curled up, so sweetly, so unlike the way he’d been resting in the kitchen chair.  You blink, and the image is still there, burned into your retina.  You can see him sleeping, but you do know that he’s gone now, no longer able to come back home.  Maybe you don’t panic because you've been filled with dread this entire time, maybe you knew something like this would occur.  You don’t like being scared of your mind and the tricks it might play on you, but you still are.  You’re not ready to go into his room, so you don’t.

And in your bed, at night, you don’t find sleep, because you hear his voice calling out your name, but you don’t move an inch. 

You see him, curled up in his bed.

 

_-It’s not that you are unhappy with the role you played once upon a time.-_

You've been living together for a few months now, so you’d sense that you were about to start getting on each other’s nerves.  It was funny how it didn't quite occur, how you didn't find things to be annoyed with.  Not that you are generally a disagreeable person, but because you know very well that residing with someone is never an easy task.  There are so many different upbringings and so little of them that merge without a hitch when cohabiting. 

You think there might be key elements in both yours and Dave’s upbringing that might have come to the surface often enough to make the two of you the best roommates in the world.  It’s something along the lines of some sensitivity towards isolation, which you both approached differently, and an appreciation towards comfort and personal belongings that you can both share instinctively.  It runs deeper; it runs in the way you both immensely matter to one another, but you never like to set that as a reason or as a foundation, the idea of taking that for granted makes you quite uncomfortable. 

He hasn't gotten on your nerves so far, but you can also feel the first period of living together nearing an end.  Not that you've run out of things to talk about or even things to do together, you can just feel some distance installing itself between the two of you, sense a shell that Dave is building according to the interactions he’s had with you at home.  You don’t have a problem with that.   

He’s not annoying it’s just that the odds have been against him this week, and for the four last times you've headed towards the bathroom with your sky blue towel, the bathroom always wound up occupied, by him.  And that boy is always on time, and you never are, and you can’t shave off those precious showering minutes and wait around for him to finish up.  It’s unfortunate, just a coincidence, you can tell. 

But damn it, this is the fifth time in a row and it’s midnight and you need this shower and you also need to slip under your covers as soon as possible.  And the door is cracked slightly open, so, no, you don’t care about that distance, shell, wall that he has, you just want that shower.  And so you kick the door wider open and hook up your towel, turning on the shower’s water before he has the time to intervene.  And of course there he is, facing the mirror, fixing up his hair.  You were about to tease him, tease him just to distract your breach of personal space.  What happens instead is that you suddenly feel much too guilty to joke around and instead blatantly apologize.

“Yo, I just kind of need the shower right now, so, like, sorry.” 

You smile crookedly and mess up your hair with one of your hands, making it very clear that you are quite aware of your lack of tact and are unable to redeem yourself for it.

His answer, however, is quick, short, and soft.  “Yeah, sorry, was just on my way out.”  And he turns away from you, ready to rush out the door, but the light casts a strange shadow across his face as he does so and you have your hand tightly around his wrist before he has the chance to get away with it or before you get the chance to register the strange expression. 

“You ok?”  And it’s just as you ask that you realize that, no, he doesn't look all that ok.  His eyes have always been his predominant feature, or in any case your attention always goes straight for them.  Now you’re not sure if it is that his eyes are large, or if it’s the color, or if it’s how rarely you see them, but they definitely grab your attention.  And there, at midnight in your lousy tiny bathroom, you can tell that they’re wider and watery. 

Just as he tells you, “I’m ok,” you neatly speak over him with the affirmation of, “No, you’re not ok.”  And you know damn well that you didn't speak up with any intimidation or harshness, you know you've said it with a smile on your face, but still he takes a step back, his wrist quickly retreating from your grasp.

You understand better once his hands go for his eyes and he cleanly breaks into heavy crying.  You never really think or realize that Dave isn't one to cry until he actually does it.  And even then you remember how you've only seen him veritably cry on one other occasion, which is peculiar as you can describe Dave as being an emotional person.  But tears?  No, it’s not a regular occurrence.  And this time, just as the first, it takes you by surprise. 

“Hey…”  You have him locked in a hug, it’s awkward because you’re not sure it’s the right thing to do, and he tenses and cries harder when you manage to wrap your arms around him.  But as soon as you pull away, he’s babbling excessively, so maybe the uneasy hug was enough to unlock a confession. 

He speaks through his tears, but his speech seems just as watered down as his face.  “I can’t think anymore, my head is so full of numbers, and I can’t concentrate, and god I am just so stressed out.” 

It’s painful to watch, he distinctively looks trapped, ashamed to have to stand there in the pitiful bathroom as he cried.  So you let him go with a few generic motivating words, “Get some rest, it’ll feel better soon.”  And he is grateful enough to bolt with the small exchange. 

You, however, hop into the shower and consider that maybe you shouldn't leave all that space to Dave, maybe he didn't need to be left alone with his thoughts.  Maybe that was corrosive to him.  You wouldn't mind taking up more of his space, you think you can definitely start doing that. 

 

_-It’s just that you feel lighter than the others.-_

You've been home for an entire week now.  Your friends and family, a small set amount of people, keep calling you up and suggesting they come over and help you with Dave’s things.  They are progressively getting pushier, and so you are progressively being rougher with your refusals.  You’re well aware that this is something that you should be doing, but you aren't ready.  And for the moment, you aren't ready to let someone waltz in under the pretext that they are readier than you are.  No thank you. 

You haven’t gone back to work yet, even though it’s been easily over two weeks since you last went.  You are under the impression that you won’t be reproached for your continued absence.  These are the sorts of events that take time, but your hero of time is gone now and there isn't much you can do yourself to keep things moving. 

Some time alone could do you some well, or at most it’s the least revolting of options.  It’s not that you want to be alone; it’s that the thought of being with others is very much unappealing for the moment.  The problem is that Dave’s voice won’t quiet down when you’re at home.  And yes, going out to buy the groceries or such is a welcomed break of it all, but you miss home too much to stay out all day.  The continuous call of your name is leaving you shaky though and you’re not quite sure what you should do with it all. 

You've come to the conclusion that a ghost lives in your house.  It stays curled up in Dave’s bed and murmurs your name into the wall the bed is pressed against, over and over and over and over…  You are ready to admit that this is the purest forms of emotional torture.  But you can’t call anyone over.  You are terrified, lonely and heavy with sorrow, but you don’t want to tell anyone.  You don’t want to be insane. 

But it’s been a week and it breaks you at your very core.  You don’t mean to do it, you don’t plan it out, but it’s past midnight and you very much dislike staying up this late.  And the calls of your name echo within your skull.  You can’t get close to his room, because stepping near causes an unexplainable chill to seep through your bones. 

You take a seat on the apartment’s sole couch and try not to choke on every breath you take.  Because it’s hard to be in this place, but it’s harder to be away from home.  It’s hard to know that Dave has been everywhere here, but it’s harder to think of places foreign to his presence.  It’s hard because you can’t get to bed, but you have such a hard time in the world of the awake.  So you call out, quite similar to what you've always told him, “Come out of your room.” 

You have to shut your eyes, because you don’t quite understand why you want to do this.  If there is a ghost living in your apartment, it is not Dave’s ghost.  It might be Dave’s voice you hear and Dave’s silhouette you see through the keyhole, but it is definitely not Dave who lives with you here now.  He is gone.  You know that very well. 

You recognize the sound of Dave’s door opening, because it’s always been able to pull you out of your own room.  You've trained your ears well enough to always be able to catch him when he snick out of his room.  Well, you thought you knew every trick in the book to spend as much time as possible with him.  But somehow, you could understand that that had gone horribly wrong. 

For a moment you are not sure if you should be even more scared, because you don’t feel the chill you do when you walk past his door, but the door had opened now, what if the spirit had zoomed to another place instead of the living room, what if you needed to be terrified and on your guard?  When you open your eyes however, it seems as if the ghost has simply taken up Dave’s spot, opposite yours on the couch. 

A ghost definitely lives in your house.  Translucent, spectral, with paleness to rival Dave’s aura, despite its lack of physical shape, there it was.  It was more than a ghost, you knew, because it looked at you with wide and large eyes of red.  And it’s not just a ghost, it’s Dave’s ghost. 

“God, I've missed you so much.”  You can’t help yourself, because the thing stares at you with his eyes, and it’s taken his seat, and it has that look Dave got when he was lost in his thoughts.  Something a bit too close to pained for your liking. 

You don’t know why you try to do this either, but you try to hug the apparition, earnestly, to squeeze his being to yours.  It’s nothing but air, but you do it anyway, the same painful tears making their way down your face.  They come and come and you hurt and hurt, unable to do anything. 

At least, when you pull away, the being is still there.  The eyes are wider than they should be, and you guess Dave must be hurting from your own inflicted pain.  And you convince yourself a second time that it’s Dave.  And this time you wrap your arms around your body instead because how much you've missed him strikes you again. 

 

_-Light like the breeze, and you are completely fine with that.-_

In the moonlight, Dave seems even paler than in the morning’s sun.  But you suppose ‘pale’ isn't the best way to put it.  You have a hard time conveying it, sometimes you’ll tell him, when the both of you can share breakfast on Saturdays, “You’re so white, Dave!”  And of course it’s always followed with “What’s that supposed to mean?”  You guess it might come off as a racial thing or another, but you really just mean it as…

A blank canvas, fallen snow, or maybe a blossoming snowdrop.  It’s hard to say, you’d say he was woven with the same fabric used for wedding gowns, but you have serious doubts that that will come off as a compliment.  There are just too many positive connotations to the aura of whiteness he gives out.  You guess you’d want to say he looks pure, but that too doesn't sound right. 

But in the only company of moonbeams as you trace his skin, you can tell him the bottom of your thoughts, you can tell him.  “Dave, you are such an angel.”  Because maybe that’s what you were aiming for, maybe the radiance of white and purity was only really you trying to say he looks angelic. 

“My bed misses me,” he whines, but he’s not moving away.  If anything he comes closer, his nose brushing against yours, his hands caressing your cheeks.  You aren't stopping him, he is the one half-sprawled out on top of you, but you can also see the way his legs are tangled in the sheets and you can guess he doesn't really want to supply the effort to leave.  So you try to give him a convenient excuse to stay.  If you ask him, he’ll say you were the one who wanted him to stay, and not the other way around. 

“My bed misses you every night,” you whisper, speaking the words carefully as if to not shatter the angelic apparition you see in him. 

“Don’t care, my bed comes first.”  But he’s sinking lower, his head resting on the pillow next to yours now.  You turn to face him, and tell him, matter-of-factly, as if knowing beforehand that he would prioritize you before his stupid bed and stupid bedroom.  “But I miss you too.” 

He promptly curls into you and lets his head weigh heavier, his eyelids flutter shut and you can see the deep breaths he takes.  That poor dear, he probably wouldn't even have made it back to his room, let alone finish the argument if you hadn't been so agreeable. 

“My angel,” you whisper playfully, as your fingers chase the moonlight in his hair. 

“Just ‘cause I’m ghostly pale,” he almost yawns out the words, and nothing else comes from his mouth afterwards. 

You remember falling asleep while hugging him close.  He doesn't get it; it’s not why you call him that.  But you wouldn't want to explain it further to him. 

 

_-But this is the first time in your life.-_

He doesn’t speak a word.  It’s not that he can’t, you know that he can, because whenever he curls up in his room you can hear your name, over and over again.  But when you ask him to come out, he stays quiet.  He follows you around your home though, much closer than Dave would have ever dared.  He stays close and watches attentively as you cook, as you clean, as you sit and try not to fall completely apart.  But he doesn't speak a word. 

You suppose it’s not a very exciting discovery, and his appearance is everything a cliched ghost should be, he still looks like Dave, only without the opacity, only that his paleness has become something of translucence.  He doesn't drift around or anything, you see his feet on the ground, and he sits on the counters, and on the couch, and of course curls onto his bed.  But you can’t touch him, he is nothing but air to you. 

You talk to him, incessantly.  But he doesn't talk back.  You don’t talk about the important things though, you don’t get angry, you don’t demand an explanation.  You just decide what you will eat today through speaking to him, or decide if you should call your father, or Rose, or Jade today, because you know they won’t be satisfied if you stay closed up on yourself.  You talk to him, he doesn't answer, but you still talk.  You cry a lot too, and at those moments he will come closer, and rest his head against your shoulder somehow.  You expect to feel that chill, the chill you associate to his bedroom door, but…  You think reassurance radiates from him.  You think those positive, nice things you’d always felt from him, were still there. 

Your tears usually double at that point, because you don’t want to be in love with someone who is gone.  You don’t know why Dave is dead and you don’t dare to question the ghost he has left behind.

 

_-It’s the very first time you hold knowledge that you cannot name.-_

“Do you miss your home?” 

He rubs at his eyes, blinking blearily, you’d turned on his bedside lamp before seating yourself at the foot of his bed, but you think he might have tried ignoring you up until now. 

“John, what?”  His voice is groggy enough to convey that he wasn't all that happy to be awakened. 

“Your home, like, do you miss yours and your brother’s place?”  You clench your fists, you don’t want to back away from this.  You hadn't thought it through, not at all, but you know you can’t think this through, you just need to get rid of this feeling. 

“John…” 

His voice is too soft, you don’t want him to tiptoe his way out of this one, so you snap out your next question a little bit more harshly, “Well?  Do you?” 

“Sure, I can miss it some days.  But that’s Bro’s home.  My home is here.”  He points at his bed and flattens himself back out against the mattress, his feet kicking at your legs as he does so.  But you don’t feel settled down at all, you’re not at ease yet. 

“Well, yeah, your room is a basic replica of what it’s always been,” you grumble, leaning your chin against your fist in such a way that half your words come out as unintelligible.  

“Jesus Christ,” you hear distinctively, as he flips himself over, scoots up his pillows, and glares quite darkly in your direction, his eyes still not all that focused from his ongoing nap.  “John my home is here with you.” 

“You’re just saying what I want to hear.”  And, well, you hadn't planned on saying that!  Well, not any of this, really, but the bitterness of your words catches you off-guard.  You feel your control slipping slightly.  You’d decided you’d love Dave and that you wouldn't back down, because you could love him best, you knew that.  But this sudden ache for him to reassure you that he loves you back is new and raw. 

“What do you want me to say?”  You can tell he had tried to match your bitterness, but it falters immediately, he doesn't have the capacity, the force, or the energy to be vile with you.  “I don’t have to tell you for you to know that we are in love, right?”  

He’s sat up now, hunched over, his hands having found yours, which hadn't been too hard, because you had immediately relaxed.  You laugh edgily, looking off to the side.  You felt bad that he could say it so normally, make it so simple and beautiful.  And you were drowning, fighting to make all of this work.  But it did already work. 

“Wouldn't you like to go be with someone else?”  You ask in a hushed tone, still displaying a weakness you were unfamiliar with.  But you suddenly cannot help it, suddenly can’t shake off the knowledge that, yes, you’ll always love him best, but maybe he wants to spend his life with someone he loved truly instead. 

“Nope, I just told you, you’re my home and my love.”  You don’t know how he manages it, but he scoops you into his arms and succeeds at pushing you under his bright covers, and throwing an arm over you.  It’s clear that he wants you to stop talking and go to sleep.  So you do, even though his bed is nowhere near as roomy as yours, but this is cozy too. 

You’re surprised he is so good at comforting you, you guess you haven’t really given him the chance to.  This is the very first time you wonder if you aren't maybe the closed one, and not the other way around.

 

_-It’s in the way that you breathe and in the way that the world breathes around you.-_

 “Has it been three months already?” 

You grimace and nod your head.  You can’t seem to let go.  You know you've taken to crossing out the days on the calendar.  Dave used to do it.  There wasn't any really true countdown in his case though, or rather, maybe there had been one, and it was the opposite of what you were doing now.  He had counted down the days to his death and you were counting up the days without him.  It was long, and painful.  You find that nowadays, you use the word painful to describe most things, but you know an effort to use a different word would just delve into a long set of synonyms to the same sentiment.  Agony, suffering, you don’t much care for the nuances. 

“And the last time I got to see you was at the funeral?” 

You shrug your shoulders.  “Busy times,” you tell her.  But of course, you know you don’t have her fooled. 

Even now, you still don’t go out much.  You have of course returned to work, and you will go out to buy necessities.  But mostly, you stay at home, speak to the memory of Dave, and pretend it’s just as good as spending time with the real thing.  You still can’t ask him a thing though.  You don’t want to ask, and you don’t want to enter his room when he calls your name at night, you don’t want any of it.  However, you've taken to asking yourself the questions, wondering, unable to understand. 

So finally, you had said yes to seeing someone.  You’d said yes to Rose, yes to Rose because if Dave could ever not confide in you, he’d confide in her.  You knew so, you absolutely knew so.  So maybe Rose could tell you, could explain what had been going on, why he’d gone and done such a thing.  Maybe Rose could tell you what had been wrong all along. 

You try not to dive right into the subject, you try to wait until you order a cup of coffee or so, but it pours out of your mouth.  “Rose, I’m seeing Dave’s ghost?” 

She has the decency to lower her voice and to look around.  “Right now?” 

You make a distressed sound in the back of your throat before continuing.  “At home.  That’s why I haven’t gotten to sort out his stuff yet, I’m sorry.  His room is haunted, his ghost is there.”  You feel as if every word you speak is sandpaper dragging up your throat, and even your lips feel warm and abused as you swipe your tongue over them. 

“The empty eyed kind?”  She asks you.  And the question makes perfect sense, but you have to push it aside. 

“No, the pretty faced, red-eyed kind, not the Sburb kind.”  You frown deeply, and wonder if she has tried to pass Dave’s death as something of the sort.  You want to be angry with the idea, but it feels hypocritical when you are presenting your coping methods as imagining Dave as haunting your home. 

“Oh, John.  That’s because you miss him.”  She grabs your hand atop the table, and you have a hard time not shaking her off.  You have a hard time because Dave would grab your hand to comfort you as well.  You have a hard time because before leaving your home earlier, Dave had grabbed both your hands before you’d walked out the door, and you’d felt nothing but air, but you’d seen those familiar fingers wrap around your skin, and it had felt so good.  And this felt so weird and off. 

You shake your head, but you don’t want to defend what will surely come off as an illusion, you don’t want to tell her that you really do see him, you really do hear him, that he really is with you at home constantly.  She sees through the shake of your head though. 

“We’re unlucky, aren't we?  Dave is harder to deal with…  Our deaths in game?  They were very much more symbolic weren't they?  But Dave, he died strategically.  His timeline used his alternates as cogs.”  She exhaled once, and you wondered how often she thought of him and of these sorts of questions.  “Or maybe he was bit of a phoenix.  He was never fully dead, because when he’d died, one of him lived on.  He died with purpose.”  And a meaningful look was exchanged between you.

It spoke volumes, it said, not this time, John.  This time there are only ashes and no reasons.  But you can’t, you can’t accept that. 

You stay long enough to down your coffee, you don’t really talk much more, and by the time you’re heading home, you find yourself wishing that Dave’s ghost will wrap his arms around you and hug you until you can forget about strategic deaths and such. 

 

_-The element of breath is no longer light however-_

Once you get home it’s just so hard to go back outside, so, as a precaution, you usually like to do what there is still to do in the outside world before heading back to home.  It’s just tricky to get away from the warm ambiance of comfort in the apartment.  You think it’s Dave’s doing, because he likes to stay at home, because he’s comfortable lounging around, because it’s so nice to do nothing at all alongside him.  It’s not a bad thing.  But there is no way you can go back out if you realize you guys are all out of toothpaste.  You remember a time, when you’d first moved in with Dave, that he could get you to go out and get anything his heart desired.  But years had passed, and now everything was too nice to leave.  It was already hard enough in the morning; you didn't want to put yourself through it more than once per day. 

You’d noticed these past few days that Dave hadn't bought anything to restock the kitchen in quite some time.  Which was somewhat unusual, he was still the sort of person who liked to have lots and lots of choices, no matter the subject at hand, and especially if it was food.  But, recently, nothing.  And so you’d taken upon yourself to stop by the grocery store on your way home.  You’d swerved and hurried through the aisles, knowing precisely the things you needed, and which way to turn.  It, of course, was always more fun going shopping with Dave, and the two of you always had a designed pathway to efficiently fill up your basket. 

It just so happened, as if fate had demanded it, that you run into Dave in the pastries’ section. 

“Fancy meeting you here!”  And for a strange reason, you see the way his body goes from alert and restless to eased and relaxed, he unceremoniously dumps the items he had been clutching into your basket and you nudge him with your shoulder, leaning down to fleetingly peck his cheek. 

“Would you look at that, now we have doubles of most things!”  You smile brightly and grab his arm, leading him further into your usual shopping route.  You've noticed that you were putting quite a bit of energy and enthusiasm, and, sure, you were happy to run into Dave like this, it was always so good seeing him.  But you sense that this peppiness was a tactic you had instinctively put into motion. 

Dave hadn't really spoken yet, you noticed, as he packs the bags at the cash register.  You’d also noticed how he’d barely selected any food at all by the time you’d found him.  Nothing is wrong with Dave; you know he is safe and happy.  But, somehow, you’re a bit worried.

 

_-Everything is heavy.-_

The idea of strategic deaths had toxically spread into your thoughts and reasoning until you simply could not keep yourself from voicing, even if only slightly, your newly founded concerns.  You hadn't really picked the moment to do so, and you hadn't even realized you were about to burst, after all Rose had mentioned the idea a month ago already and you’d brilliantly kept it to yourself.  Or maybe you had not done so brilliantly, because your interactions with the outside world were growing more limited with every passing day. Maybe you hadn't done so brilliantly, because the only person you had to keep it from was the one person you could not kill.  Though you keep yourself from tacking on the ‘and could not hurt’ because you feel it in your chest whenever his stunning eyes shift in expression. 

But it had become natural already, to crack yourself open and let Dave’s ghost see all of you and all of your fears.  It _felt_ natural to have him with you now, to have to call him out of his room and then have him impossibly near you until you yourself retreated to your room.  You hadn't conditioned yourself to accept him into your daily life, you had dreaded it even.  It’s not that you are trying to keep yourself from moving on either, but you have a hard time wrapping your mind around that particular idea.  Especially when another one has occupied most of your thinking.

You hadn't picked the moment to tell him, but you have the slight feeling that he might have picked it for you.  Or maybe it was really you at the base, you who had let it shine through today that you've been worried and preoccupied.  But you had shut your eyes when he had reached up to push his fingers through the hair at the nape of your neck.  You shut your eyes and it almost feels like a breeze on the back of your neck, and that is enormously better than the emptiness his touch can bring you when you observe his movements instead.  And you lean down instinctively when he reaches up to kiss your forehead.  It’s not warm, it’s not anything, but it soaks you up with reassurance and determination regardless.  

And the fear makes it past your lips, small and soft as you remember his voice being at most times.  “What if I’m just not in the alpha timeline?”  You can physically feel the tiredness weighing into your look as it crawls out of the confines of your mind.  It had always felt uncomfortable, had made you want to ask someone to squeeze you until you felt like yourself again, but the way Rose could trace everything to the game you’d played as teenagers had rubbed on you and had proved to make a lasting effect.  You were trapped with this sinking feeling, this destabilizing ‘what if’ when it came to your reality. 

“I mean, think about it?  We tell ourselves to let it go, that we’re living normal lives, but…  Hadn't there been parts of ourselves, others that were us, who had to lead average lives just to stabilize the complexity of the timeline…  I mean, what if?”  His fingers and lips, both so familiar, but so absent, had shied back, and his eyes became guarded, unlike most of the expressions you've been able to read on his spectral visage.  “A dead Dave doesn't seem like end-game to me, it seems like a timeline gone wrong.  A beta timeline, you understand, right?” 

And no, he still hasn't said a word to you, and it doesn't change now.  His eyes had drowned in eyelids of silver and you had to force yourself not to pull any hasty conclusions.  He doesn't touch you again throughout the night, doesn't look much at you either, but you decide that he’s preoccupied too now.  You wonder what he thinks of all of that, if maybe he agrees, if maybe… 

You bid him goodnight much earlier than usual, but he almost seems relieved, stalls away from you, slipping past his door with a quiet quality that fills your head with unpleasant memories.  Once in the dark, by yourself, you ask yourself if he’s hiding anything from you.  And you hear your name, whispered into the apartment’s walls, and you try not to think too hard about it. 

 

_-You get the sense of déjà-vu.-_

“Hurry up, what are you even doing?”  His voice had climbed up in nervous energy and suspicion, and your responding laughter, which you honestly had not been able to control, only makes him get up from his seat, across from you at the kitchen table, and go straight for you, shoving and clinging to your shoulders in a bizarre mix of annoyed but frightened. 

“What did you do?” He asks you again, obviously conflicted by how darkly you’d laughed. 

“Nothing, I’m uploading the dumb album, you should be kissing and thanking me, why are you being so feisty?” 

He huffs, disconnecting his music player from your laptop before you have the chance to cause any more havoc.  You straighten up in surprise when he does kiss you clumsily, and laugh even harder when you see him walk back to his seat, his pride obviously wounded. 

You’d gotten him the dumb acoustic album on your way home from work, and he had whined for you to put it on his iPod as soon as possible, and when you finally, finally, had the honor of connecting his music to your computer, you couldn't help the impulse to try to dig up some of his secrets and privacy.  And that plan had worked quite well. 

“So you wouldn't happen to know which tracks are the most played on there, do you?”  The way you tease him is much too familiar for him to miss or ignore.  You see him glance down behind his shades, and you almost want to laugh because he hasn't worn those at home for a long time now.  You assume he’d gone out earlier and had forgotten about them.  (And a small side of you prays and prays that that’s the case and that he isn't reverting to old habits, because you've seen him progressively getting sadder.) 

The look he gives the iPod comes off as so betrayed, and a snort works itself into your laughter now.  “I can only imagine it’s something embarrassingly bad.”  And your loud and resounding reply of “Hey!” is enough to hint him into the right direction. 

He hasn't been that red in the face for a long time now, and you manage to squish that small side of you who is getting more restless with every passing day with how lovely and safe he looks in that moment.  “Oh, don’t look so mortified!”  You tell him with a wave of your hand. 

But he’s quick to snap back and to defend, clutching the sky blue iPod to his chest.  “Well, don’t look so surprised!  You gave me this damn thing with those tracks already uploaded, they are the oldest, so, like, duh!” 

He knows you've seen the astronomical play count next to the small list of songs.  It had been a long time ago that you’d given him the iPod, for his eighteenth birthday, and the real surprise had been your self-recorded piano playing.  You yourself had been mortified about that plan, but you knew how Dave got with artistry and emotions, you knew he liked all of that, so you’d swallowed down your fear and you’d put yourself out there.  He hadn't said all that much, but he’d held your hand when he had thanked you, and you had understood. 

“Uh huh, but, Dave, they were on the recently played playlist as well!”  You watched him get even redder with an alarming fondness. 

“Whatever,” is all he says, and you’re the one to grab his hand this time, atop the round table of the kitchen, and you kiss his every knuckle in response, and he doesn’t manage to answer with much, you understand why, because you can feel his embarrassment clouding his every breath.  

The small part of you is successfully squished down when you tell yourself this has been solid proof that you still matter tremendously to him. 

 

_-But you can’t quite remember.-_

Half a year today.  Saturday morning.  You’re still in pajamas, but your outfit includes that hoodie you’d miraculously found in the corner of your bottom drawer.  It was Dave’s, and it had always looked big on him, but it looked fine on you, and it felt more than fine when you had it with you.  Most nights, you wore it to bed. 

It’s Saturday morning, and on a day like a Saturday morning, any day on which you don’t have to go out, Dave will eventually ghost his way out of his room, without you having to tell him to.  It helps you realize that he’d been the same way when he had still been around, you had never grasped that he was a lot more willing to spend the day close to you when he was already assured that you wouldn't be escaping to your workplace or such. 

But today, you step out of your bedroom, knowing he will hear it and take it as an eventual cue to uncurl from his forevermore empty bed and to come join you; only today you haven’t changed yet and you march directly to his door.  And, you put your hand down on the doorknob.  You don’t like doing this, and as a matter of fact, you rarely do.  There’ a harsh cold that comes in contact with your skin when you approach his room, and he himself, in all of his ghostliness, never does that to you.  It’s hard to get close to it, but you've figured it out now.  You've put everything up, without building solid foundations, but it was there, in front of your eyes.  The days Dave would cross out on the calendar, the way his mind clogged with numbers when you left him alone, how dear his room was to him, the way the pink lemonade had sat unfinished on the kitchen table…  Dave’s ghost. 

It looked clear enough to you.  You had the clues.  Dave had left you the clues.  He hadn't really…  It wasn't what everyone had thought.  He was just getting you out of this doomed timeline; that must have been it.  And you had a mission to accomplish now, you just had to look around his room and find the final clue. 

Your muscles twitch as you keep your hand in place, the feeling is numbing and difficult, but you hold up and keep your breathing steady.  You hear the call of your name, much more outspoken than usual.  So you call back.  “Don’t worry Dave, I just want to come in and see you, ok?” 

He doesn't give you an ok however.  You still open the door.  Your lungs too feel numb when you do reveal the bedroom.  Truly the bedroom of a ghost.  This place was unoccupied, vacant, abandoned, dusty, awful, awful, awful…  All at once, the pain and doubt washes over you.  You weren't ready to open the door.  But you think of the crosses on the calendar and of the continuous cries for you when he stays in this bed, and you step in. 

You hate the feeling.  You’d rather suffocate.  But you really, really you think you already are suffocating.  He sits cross legged at the foot of his bed and you remember that’s a place you liked to occupy when you came into his room.  His eyes are wide, wide, wide.  But you pay no attention, you overlook him.  And in the shadows of the abandoned room, it’s easy to forget about him.  You move to the right immediately, and kneel at his record collection. 

You don’t know what you are looking for.  But your fingers slip inside the cases of records, throwing them aside when they are revealed to be devoid of signs.    You think of the Beat Mesa, you think of lifetimes of twisting the timelines, and you know this can’t be end-game.  Your rummaging accelerates and you are dropping the records out of place without much a thought, quickly discarding one after the other. 

You hear his ghost call your name, and he sounds just as suffocated as you feel, but you ignore him as best as you can.  You tell him, “It’ll just be a second!”  And you head for his desk this time.  Look through the drawers, search through every basket of various things, dump any of his pencil pots, and there are a lot of those.  You find his art supplies in his last drawer and look through the pages as rapidly as you can, but you don’t pay any mind to his creations, too axed on finding a clue, some indication to what you should do to get back to the alpha timeline, to get back to the Dave with a beating heart. 

So you have to move to his closet next, but now you can hardly contain yourself anymore.  You barely are able to take in the objects that pass through your hands; they are growing more and more insignificant as you search.  He calls out to you again.  And he doesn't just say you name, he tells you to stop.  But he doesn't matter either.  He isn't the real Dave.  He’s a replacement, a sign put there for you to find him again.   

Your mind starts blacking out most of your gestures, and before you know it the sun is no longer in the sky, your head is throbbing with the intensity with which you’re searching.  You only want to be in dead Dave’s room once, that’s it.  You don’t want to go through this another time.  So you force yourself to find the answers now, you simply have to.  But you get back to the record collection, and that’s game over. 

You glance over to the ghost of Dave, how he’d stayed seated in the same spot, eyes shimmering as he watched over you. 

“Get up,” is all that you say.  And you find yourself digging between the wall and the edge of the mattress, and in between his sheets, and under his pillows.  You don’t do it on purpose, but you end up on your knees next to the bed, face buried into one of those pillows.  And you groan helplessly as you let the tears of pain overflow for what is the first time in a while.  On Tuesday night, his last night here, he had slept in his own bed.  And on Wednesday morning, his last morning here, he had undeniably made his bed.  And you were elbow deep in that bed, looking for clues.  And it hurt in such a good way, to be close to this place he had been in, a place where he’d felt safe.  You cry for some time. 

The ghost manages to sit himself next to you and hug your midriff, just as Dave once had, whenever he wanted to let you know that you were appreciated.  Whenever he would act like a little kid and not the person who liked to hide away.  Your sobs have grown weary, unable to let out more of the accumulated pain, and you shake your head with a desperate need to be reassured, to find someone who will make it alright again. 

“Didn't you die because you had to?  Didn't you realize we were in the bad timeline?  Wasn't that what you were doing?”  Your breath comes out harsh and labored, and you pull away from the poor pillow, taking in the chaos you had spread in the room.  The room you had religiously stayed away from.  It was ruined now.  Dave would never be able to clean it up the way he likes it to be cleaned up.  You hunch your shoulders forward, trying to find a way to curl yourself up, just as his ghost does daily, trying to find a way to let out more of your sorrow without having to shed more tears. 

“So that’s it?  There aren't any clues here?”  Your eyes are prickling though and there is a trembling in your bottom lip you aren't accustomed to.  You are not so sure keeping tears in is that much of a doable feat.  “I've stayed away from this room for so long, and there is nothing in here for me to fix this?”  You hadn't meant to scream, but you think Dave gets it, because he hugs you tighter.  It’s still nothing but air, but it’s his delicate arms trying to hold you together, even if they can’t quite do that. 

You had done your best to stop yourself from asking him questions.  But you’d broken yourself down in a day’s time.  You didn't hug your knees to your chest as you wanted to because you were trying to let him hug you instead, even though it left you feeling untouched and invisible.  But he is close, and his heartbeat should be beating alongside yours, even if there is no chance for that anymore. 

“Then why did you do that to yourself?”  You had meant to ask it hollowly at the very least, but it came out charged, with all of those important, unspoken things. 

He would never answer outside of his room, but there, pressed against you, amongst the mess you’d made, he spoke to you as softly and as lovingly as he ever had.  But it wasn't the answer you wanted to hear.  He told you, again and again, “I’m sorry.”  And that’s all he said for some time, as you tried to absorb the enormity of the situation. 

“I’m sorry, John, I’m sorry.”

 

_-It’s within reach yet you have not yet reached.-_

Dave keeps walking around the house with that ugly pink thing.  It’s a blanket, or so Rose said when she offered it to Dave years ago, it’s hideously knitted, and the shade is the only thing that can rival it in hideousness.  That was the year Rose had gone to study abroad, and they didn't know you could hear them from the tiny bathroom of your first apartment, but you’d heard her say something tacky, something like…  Oh, you can’t quite remember, but it had to do with Dave having the blanket when he couldn't speak to Rose instead. 

But he’s been wearing the thing an awful lot lately, which is positively weird because you know for a fact he could just dial Rose’s number, and there her voice would be.  That’s not all though.  And you have to bite your tongue quite often to not make fun of his obvious choices of comfort food.  But that too is weird, because he’s stopped cooking and he’ll barely take any bites of the meals you make for him instead.  You can tell he’s sad, and god does it hurt. 

He doesn't come to you for advice, he doesn't come to you to open up; and you feel shamefully powerless.  You’re waiting for him to say something to you.  In the mean time you stay upbeat and you stay positive, and you make sure to kiss him a lot and love him a lot and to keep him distracted.  But he’s sad and you don’t know what happened exactly.  

Some days are better.  Some days the sun shines brightly outside, and he seems perfectly normal.  And you've noticed that those days have been somewhat increasing so there is at least that to look forward to.  Soon he will no longer be sad, and maybe he’ll sneak into your room at night and tell you what exactly had happened to make him get that way.  And you two can laugh about it, but really it will help you in the future.  You know, that’s how it works for Dave. 

There is nothing to be worried about.

 

_-There is something that you know that you have not yet learned or experienced.-_

You’d expected to see a neighbor at the door, or maybe some sort of salesperson.  You almost shut the door right back into their faces when you understand who it is.  Yes, it does take you a moment to realize who they are, or maybe to remember. 

“Hi,” is all you manage to say at first, and it’s stressed, and it illustrates perfectly how you are trying to keep the door as close to shut as possible.  You didn't exactly want them to come in, you would prefer for them to stay out of all of this.  You would prefer for them to decide against this and just leave again. 

“Hello, John.”  And she sounds so chiding that you have to convince yourself that she isn't offended by how easily you have been blocking her out of your life recently. 

It’s awkward, and you make it known that it is by how you hold yourself at the door of your apartment.  It’s not that you look bad, you know that you look good enough, you don’t look like anyone who is about to collapse under the weight of grief and of mourning.  But you still shrug your shoulders and look away and try to make it clear that they weren't exactly invited over.  But he, however, is not Rose.  And he tells you, straight to the point, “We’re here to help you with Dave’s stuff.”  In the way that he’s said it, you can guess that there isn't much ‘help’ in his intentions, there was rather only a sole need for action. 

“Now is not the best of times.”  Had it not been for his foot in the door, you would have sealed your living space once more. 

“A year’s wait is a good time.” 

“Nine months.”

You can’t really fight them off.  Rose, maybe, but the older Strider, no.  It doesn't help how he looks so much like his sibling.  It doesn't help how you can recognize Dave’s face.  Of course, it was the same with Rose’s face, but that was different, that was different in the way that it was a friend’s face as well, a feminine rendition of Dave’s.  His guardian had his face, simply, but sterner and more intimidating and without that touch…  That touch that Dave had, his affinity for emotion and for feeling and for anything raw and beautiful— And it always hurt to imagine him in a different way. 

You let them in regardless.  Regardless of how he is one of the last people you want in here.  Regardless of the fact that Dave’s room is unrecognizable now, turned upside down.  Even Dave’s ghost climbed into your bed at night, and tried to hold on to your hand, or tried to pet your hair, or tried to be of some comfort and of some presence.  He was also the one to keep you calm when the only thing you wanted to do was to turn that chill inducing doorknob and go search and destroy more of his belongings. 

So, of course, you walk back to Dave once they've entered.  Because he is your source of comfort and of company.  But also, because you’re the only one he’s seen.  Because this is the first time someone comes home and he hasn't left your home and you’re scared for him and you've always and still felt that need to protect him and keep him safe. 

For some strange reason however, the room had seemed to drop in temperature as you made your way back to him.  You hadn't picked up on the silence either until you were seated on the couch, close to Dave’s place.  It’s not Dave who piques your awareness, it’s his brother, who blatantly looks the ghost in the eye and speaks his name. 

“Dave,” Rose mouths as well.  And the eventuality that you were not insane and that a ghost wasn't just a helping hand via your mind strikes you down and pushes you to the ground, helpless.  Helpless indeed as you sense them calculating this situation. 

“John, John, you were right…  The beta timeline!  It’s Dave…  He left a ghost behind, because he’s hero of time.  Of course, of course, there is something we can do about time, about his death, I’m sure.  With Jade, we’re unstoppable.  If we can control time and space, there is no reason for Dave to be dead.  Not since he’s left his trace behind, and—“ 

You think your head is spinning just as much as hers, but not enough for you to not break through her sudden logic and clairvoyance.  It wasn't enough to keep you from glancing to your beloved ghost, to the wideness of his eyes and of his ever present muteness. 

“You don’t get it, do you?”  You can feel a certain meanness bubbling up in your speech, and the discovery of months ago, when you’d finally entered his room, overtakes you.  “Dave hasn't left shit behind for us to resurrect him.  Rose, Dave committed suicide, he’s not going to be alive again, and he definitely wouldn't want the chance to be.” 

And that’s that.  When everything was said and done, you hadn't spoken such words before, you hadn't even dared to think them.  Thinking about…  About someone as soft and as lively as Dave taking his own life was, close to unbearable. 

“Please just go.”  And the way your voice shakes with oncoming tears is just enough to make them easier to convince. 

 

_-But the tricks time plays on your mind are easier than the ones it will usually play on itself.-_

Dave is doing better, and that’s great! 

He invited you into his room and you clutched his hand as the two of you stayed under the covers, and he let the music blast from his speakers, and you listened to every note and to every instrument as he sang along with every word. 

Your head leaned against his and you let your eyes fall closed, and you felt that everything was right when you were with him. 

It was strange to say it, but you did.  “I missed you.”  Even though you've been with him for all these years, even though you've worked so hard to always stay close to him. 

And he answers.  “I miss you too.”  Your chest swells up when he uses the present, and you have to kiss him, slow and steady, with your hands trying to find the pulse of his heart under his ribs and his skin.  And wow, you hadn't realized that you still miss him, that you still need him closer.  But you never tell him, you only kiss him until it becomes much too dark outside and until his music shifts to lulling songs that have no choice but to put the two of you to sleep in each other’s arms, hearts heavy and light all at once.

 

_-For the first time ever you are feeding off intuition.-_

 “Hey Dave.” 

He blinks in answer and you try to brush your hand against his cheek, but there is nothing to brush. 

“You’re nothing but air.”  You've thought it dozens of times now, and you can’t really put it aside. 

“You've been nothing but air for almost a year now.”  Your chest is aching, threatening to collapse and to become a hollow shell with every word you dare to speak.

The two of you are sitting on the floor, because, this morning, when you’d tried getting ready for work, you’d simply sat in the middle of your room, and you had waited until he would be interested enough to come to your spot and to sit facing you.  And he had. 

“Dave.  I know you didn't want to stay in this apartment.” 

Guilt flashes across his face, and you jump in surprise when he whispers it, with a voice you hadn't been able to hear since you had turned his room upside down.  “I’m sorry,” he tells you again, and it’s hard not to stop and not to try to pull him to you and to squeeze him until he becomes tangible once more. 

“It’s my fault…”  You don’t want to do this now, but it’s something you can’t let escape.  You have to push a little more, just test the limits a bit farther.  “I've given this a lot of thought, so you can trust me, right?” 

He shakes his head almost deftly, as if wanting to shoo the conversation away, not deny your statement.  He did trust you.  You might not have been sure when he was still in his body, but you've learned to see it over the months, with the way he will stay near you, with the way he will always give you his time.  But you need a bit more time from him. 

“I’m sure you still have powers, you know, like Rose said.”  Deep breath.  “I know so, because I know I’m the one keeping you here.  I know you’re nothing but air, and I know that you are because I can’t let you go.” 

You can’t really concentrate on his face for any longer, you need to do this right, you need to try.  You are too tired to cry more of those painful tears, you need for things to be alright, and you would be damned if you didn't give it an extra push. 

“Look, I was never up to date with time shenanigans.  I don’t know if you can really turn back the sands of time, heh… Or I don’t know if this is going to cause a loophole or whatever, but, you have to give me a second chance?”

It’s not really a question, you are pushing him into this, and by the expression you can read on his lovely face, you can tell that he is fully conscious that he is being pushed as well. 

“I know now that things weren't alright for you.  But I promise I am going to make them alright, so you don’t have to be scared…” 

You laugh tensely when you take note of the oncoming need to cry.  You push at your eyes with the heels of your hands with a small sound of annoyed anguish before you can even turn back to him. 

He looks scared.  And you want to tell him how ironic it is to see a scared ghost, but the moment doesn't call for that.  You try to close your hand around his, but nothing.  And you try to kiss his forehead, but nothing.  Nonetheless, when you give him a little bit of space, his eyes hide behind silver eyelashes and his lips tremble in the same way that yours have taken to doing in the last months.  The emotional turmoil emanating from him is so strong, but you can’t back down.

You've given it a lot of thought.  You've created this chance for yourself.  You need to grab it while there is still time.  While the ghost of time still holds your hand every night. 

“Don’t be scared,” you tell him.

 

_-And you are not afraid.-_

You wake up in the middle of the night.  At first, you don’t understand why your heart is racing, and you have to sit there for a few minutes, a hand over your chest.  You make great efforts to keep your cool, to not panic yet, but the strain in your chest is particularly demanding.  “It’s alright,” you say it out loud, and you are slightly shocked when your hands don’t quite rub the sleep from your eyes and instead brush against your wet cheeks. 

“It’s alright,” you repeat, but your heart won’t slow, and the pressure of your ribcage won’t let up.   

Many thoughts run rampant in your head.  You should try to get back to sleep, or stay there and calm yourself down, or even stand up and do some exercise, if only to take consciousness of your body once more, or maybe even go to the bathroom, wet your face with the tap water.  The idea of getting a glass of water from the kitchen is the last in your mind, but you go with that one. 

The night is considerably warm, and the living area of the apartment is lit up well enough by the street lamps outside, and…  Your home feels like home, it’s almost unsettling how homey it feels, despite the cries from your chest; it just feels so good to be stepping into the kitchen.  Your fingers go over the surface of the nice, round kitchen table as you move to retrieve a glass.  Your heart still hasn't slowed, but you’re humming slightly in the moonlight, things feel especially nice all of a sudden.  You move towards the freezer, sliding out the ice tray, and your eyes pick up, even in the lack of lighting, the cans of concentrated juices.  You shift them around until you see the pink lemonade.  This prompts you to search the freezer a bit more thoroughly.  It’s hard to stop looking because you don’t quite know what you are searching for.  You shut the door back when you've made a full inventory of what is stored up there.  But your heart doesn't go back to normal, if anything, it seems to double in pace, and you clutch weakly at it as you open the fridge to search it as well. 

This goes on for some time, and eventually you turn to looking through the drawers, putting everything in its place, but still looking frantically it seemed.  Yet, you had no idea what you could be searching for.  But you are stuck with the absolute need to put everything back into its place.  You remember this frantic feeling from a different search, but that seems far away, almost inaccessible information.  Bits of Dave’s room flashes before your eyes.  You've never been through Dave’s things, his bedroom is much too sacred for that, but the images in your head make you consider that what you are looking for might be in his room instead.  You've woken up Dave at four in the morning before, it’s not going to stop you tonight, especially not with how bothersome your chest is being. 

You have to bite your lip in concentration when you stop at his doorknob; you don’t understand why the feeling of the metal beneath your hand is so fascinating, why it feels so warm against the palm of your hand. 

You definitely don’t understand why you hiss out his name when you see him, in bed, facing the door, face soft and relaxed in his sleep.  You understand even less when it comes out as heartbroken, but you do get the relation between the actual pain in your chest and that sound.  You have to almost shake him awake, but you do, and you kneel on the floor, ready to face him when he awakes. 

There was nothing you had prepared to tell him, or to ask him about, maybe just tell him about how weird you were feeling, but your mouth beats you to the decision making and when you see the recognition in his eyes and the slow, sluggish way he wakes up, you dive right in. 

“Hey, Dave, where do we keep the arsenic?” 

You’re not sure which shocks you most, if it’s how good it feels to say his name and to have him react to your words, or the selection of words that had tumbled out of you. 

“Who are we planning to poison?”  He looks almost annoyed that he has to get up, he has to yawn multiple times as he tries to get himself together.  But you find that you don’t need to put yourself back together, that every time you dare let yourself speak, your chest stops pulling in as much of your attention. 

“You.”  And that doesn't sound weird or off either, so you keep going farther.  “You, Dave.  The reason we have arsenic is because you are going to poison your stupid pink lemonade and kill yourself. 

You’d feel a lot more like you were threatening him if you weren't acknowledging your memories with every step you take orally.  Memories of the future, but they are valid nonetheless, valid enough for him to scoot down under his covers and to pull them closer to his chin. 

“Go back to bed, John.” 

And then you are on your feet, but that is understandable, because you are too angry, too suffocated to stay seated near the head of his bed.  “No, you listen here.  I am not going back to bed until we have fully talked about this.”

“There is nothing to talk about, you are acting crazy.”  He turns towards his wall, and that is too much to handle.  It burns your eyes almost, and adds to the chest pain, and crashes your entire world at once. 

“Then, that’s it?  You die and I have to be miserable for the rest of all time?  And I don’t even get a fucking word as to why; all I get are dumb and meaningless apologies and an empty home.” 

“No one’s dying,” he grumbles, he raises a hand to make a dismissive gesture, but it’s barely as if you can see him.  Both your sight and mind seem to be blurring him out.  The mode of distress and panic is beyond activated, and you can’t quite clear up your head as to why you have such odd knowledge.  Why you think Dave will take his own life is beyond you but is cemented in you as an absolute truth. 

“Don’t you like living here with me?”  Then, you've sensed that you've opened the floodgates.  There isn't consideration for any other word, they come out as a monologue you've never rehearsed, but to which you know every single nuance.  “Don’t you like our home?  Don’t you like it when we try new recipes together?  Don’t you like it when something good is playing on the television so we get a marathon idea for the next rainy day?  Don’t you like spending time together?  Don’t you like it when we can fall asleep or wake up together?”  You stop, not because you've run out, but because you've realized with a stab of hurt that these are all things you've missed terribly.  These are all things that hurt a lot when they had been stripped away from you. 

You don’t get the time to recuperate, because he cuts you off, sitting up in bed and turning to you, hands fisted over his lap.  “It’s not like that, you don’t get it.”  His eyes are defiant, with a sort of hurt pride.  And you are coming closer to territories you've never dared coming in contact with.  It’s frightening because it makes unconfirmed fears a lot more real than they have ever been.

“You don’t have to ask, ok?  If you want to sit closer to me, or if you want me to spend more time at home, or if you want to sleep in my bed, you can just take what you want, I can keep guessing and trying to give you the right things, but I know it isn't working.”  You try to shake your head and get rid of the images of a much paler Dave who would gladly always scoot up closer to you. 

“Me taking isn't how it works either!”  His retaliation is unexpected, yet quite soft in comparison to the feelings you can guess within the outline of his eyes. 

“Dave.  You can have what you want.  Don’t give up, please don’t, I know you could have anything that you want.”  Your heart finally comes to a halt, and with that your head hangs lower and your voice cuts off with a sobbed hiccup.  You hadn't meant to sound this pleading.  You sit on his bed, facing away from him and pushing the tears away from your cheeks as best as you could. 

“John…”  You don’t give him a chance this time.  Your shoulders sag and slouch farther away from him.  “No, you won’t ever have any idea how much it hurts to be so far from the one you love.” 

Far, isn't the perfect word.  But hurt, hurt is the best one you will ever find.  You have to clutch at your head with one hand, because a huge part of you is not really sure what you are talking about, and a smaller, repressed part, holds memories you want to flatten out into nothingness. 

“Often, I feel far from you.”  His words are shy and somewhat mumbled, but you still can’t ignore the good that it does to you to hear him express himself, even if his thoughts are so unlike yours. 

“You isolate yourself so much, of course you do.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

“No, John, you do.” 

Your hand has to clutch a bit more tightly and your headache spreads without warning.  Your back is starting to hurt too, as if the pain of your skull is rushing down the back of your neck and into your shoulders.  There is a vague impression from your past that whispers the same thing he’s said into your ear, and in this extreme moment of weakness, you can’t do much to fight it off. 

“I go into my room a lot, but you…  You’re barricaded inside your head, even when I’m with you, I can tell you’re thinking about, well, about…  How to do the right thing for me.  But I feel so lonely, because you won’t let me in.” 

You can’t see him, but you can hear how difficultly he is speaking up.  It’s overshadowed by years of trying to keep him safe, of overthinking and setting aside most of your feelings and hunches just to add to that safety. 

“John, just let me in.” 

You still don’t want to turn to him though, you are much more comfortable staring at his bedroom door, trying to forget whatever mistakes you might have committed…  How horrible you must have been to have driven him so fully into a corner. 

“I feel like I’m drowning, please just let me in.” 

The words are heavy with honesty, and quite heavy enough to have your heart racing again.  By the time you've scooted fully into his bed, you already have an armful of him, his body tightly wound up around yours.  His face pressed into your shoulder, his arms around your waist, hands fisted into your shirt, his legs curled and tucked against your body.  He’s missed you just as much as you have, you tell yourself, but you don’t quite understand how you can tell yourself now that you slightly remember a year spent grieving and alone. 

“I never kept you out, Dave, how can you say that?  I've always, always, always wanted us to be close.” 

Your left hand is cradling the back of his head; you are hit with a wave of warmth at how you can feel his hair beneath your palm, how that’s Dave’s precious head, well and alive. 

“I don’t know, I don’t know why I said it…  You just feel far away, so much.”  His body rocks against yours, it’s a rare occurrence, so you remember that Dave crying is completely unusual and an important thing.  So you try to bring him closer still.  You try to melt into his mattress too, into this warm environment, devoid of the chill that had installed itself in your perception of his bedroom. 

“I’m here and I’m never letting go.  And…  Especially not if you die, so please don’t put me through it.”  Your laugh is forced but not humorless.  You are sharing the truth, doubtlessly.  And you’re proud to be able to hold him now.  You don’t quite understand how you've woken him up and gotten him into such a state so quickly, but it feels good to tap into all this emotion and to dig out Dave from wherever he had buried himself. 

Images of Dave keeping to himself flash before you, and you realize at once that you might have been the one who had filled the unapproachable position, that it had not been him who had built a fortress. 

“I can make it better, I promise.”  It feels like you've promised the same thing quite recently, but you discard the feeling.  All that matters is the confirmation that you get to keep Dave with you. 

He wiggles in your arms, and that moment feels good too, your hands ghost over his back and you are amazed at all this feeling emitted by such a delicate person, but you stay quiet about it, instead you pull him into lying under the covers with you, like you've done so many times in the past.  But he doesn't retreat from you, and he’s still wound up into you when he tells you, “It already feels better.” 

You go to sleep with your head buzzing, screaming different messages to you.  You go to sleep with Dave as close as he can be.  And when you wake up and nuzzle his face until he kisses you silly, you decide you will stay in for the day and clear up the confusion and distress in your mind.  Because you get the feeling that in between all of that, there is a key answer.  And that the happiest and safest Dave, the one you’d always imagined, was just within reach. 

Dave spends some time crying against you, but you don’t register them as tears of pain but tears of relief.  And you promise yourself to be there whenever they will be shed. 

 

_-Because you know everything that you have to do.-_

  


**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone... I finally have some time to write fanfiction again u_u I am working on a pretty cool multi-chaptered story that I might be able to post in the future! But have this oneshot for now C:


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